


Living Through the Ghosts

by newmrsdewinter



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Heavy Angst, Immortality, Post-Blue Lions Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:47:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21773947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newmrsdewinter/pseuds/newmrsdewinter
Summary: “Seteth,” Dimitri says, and his voice comes out strangled.“Yes, Your Majesty?”“I will die first,” he states calmly. This is neither a question nor an off-hand statement. This is a fact — a truth that he must learn to accept as he ages into an old man filled with regrets while Byleth, youthful and beautiful as ever, picks up the pieces he leaves behind.Seteth doesn’t flinch. “Yes,” he replies quietly. “You will. That won’t be for many years, though. You still have time.”Not enough, Dimitri thinks miserably. He twists the ring on his finger and gazes into the fire.Never enough.------The ghosts that linger during the worst moments of Dimitri’s life, and the new ones that follow him into the future.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 46
Kudos: 233





	1. Chapter 1

Dimitri’s earliest memory is of waking from a nightmare. 

In his nightmare, he explores an unfamiliar tower. Although his legs are not yet long enough to climb the steps, he plumbs through flights of serpentine staircases that stretch to the heavens like the Goddess’s own hand. With every step that echoes through the tower, his stomach lurches with rising dread and anticipation because he knows that at the very top, there lurks in the shadows a monster with a wasted face. Sunken lips. Rot dripping from its eyes. When it bares its fangs in a snarl, it speaks with his voice and he wakes up shrieking. 

The dreams morph into a red haze after Duscur and stop entirely when the war begins. He scarcely notices that reality is melding with the nightmare until five years later, he’s climbing the tower again, and when he reaches the top, there isn’t a monster poised to devour him. 

Only an empty room, rat carcasses, and the voices shrieking their taunts in his head. 

* * *

_Verdant Rain Moon, 1185. Enbarr._

In a dreary, moonless hour of the night, Dimitri awakes sweating and overheated. He exhales noisily, but his breath gets caught in his throat when he can't recognize his surroundings. He has no recollection of falling asleep, only the impact of his head against the marble floor as the most agonizing pain pulsed throughout his entire body. 

The pain lingers, but only as a dull, throbbing ache in his muscles. He blinks, and the entire world shifts into focus. He is lying upon an unfamiliar bed. The furnishings are distinctly scarlet and the scent of cloves perfumes the air. An icy hand grips his heart once he realizes exactly whose bed he is lying in. 

These are Edelgard’s personal quarters. 

Massive bouquets of red carnations sit upon every available surface, drooping their petals onto the carpet. As healers flit in and out of the room, their boots kick up petal drifts that lift and flutter around their ankles. A comparison springs to his mind, but his stomach protests before he can finish the thought. It is a shame that there are so very few red things in the world as dark and red as blood. 

His eye drifts across the room, searching for a place to rest upon that isn't scarlet. His gaze eventually lands upon Byleth's haggard face, hovering not far above his own. He smiles at her, only half-aware that there are drool stains dripping down his chin from sleep. 

“We almost lost you,” Byleth whispers. “Two whole days…” 

His face falls. “What happened?” 

“Blood poisoning. I don’t know where she found the toxins, but it progressed much faster than anything I’d ever seen before….” 

_The dagger_ , he realizes. Edelgard had poisoned the dagger. “It was from Hubert,” he rasps. “Who else?” 

She manages a tight-lipped smile. “Ferdinand and Shamir exhumed his laboratory. They found the antidote before it was too late.” 

“Exhumed?” Dimitri repeats. Byleth says this with such nonchalance that he shudders and his entire body aches with renewed pain; the mental image is too terrifying to behold. 

“Yes. Exhumed. I’m told it was ghastly.” 

Dimitri swallows thickly. “I’m sorry.” 

“No, no,” Byleth says hastily. She cups his clammy cheek with her hand, and he leans into her touch. “Of course it’s not your fault. Oh, it’s just —” She draws a deep breath, and it's only then he notices that her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen. “We’ve never been that close to losing you before. When your fever wouldn’t break, we thought the worst...” 

He laughs bitterly, but keels over the bed when it comes out as a hacking coughing fit. A handkerchief is thrown into his face and he immediately presses it to mouth as mucous rattles loose from his throat. Byleth calls for help before he can stop her, but then he does a double-take. The mucous he spat out is an awful greenish color that’s streaked with specks of blood. Before he knows it, Mercedes and now Dedue are peering over his face, looking equal parts upset and concerned. 

“I was afraid of this,” Mercedes murmurs, palpating his chest with her cold hands. “The infection has spread to his lungs.” 

“The blood poisoning?” Byleth asks, shocked. 

“No, something different, but no less concerning. It'll progress into pneumonia if we're not careful.”

“At this point, the only thing that will kill me is the plague,” Dimitri quips. 

Silence reigns in the room as all activity halts to a standstill. Byleth even sighs. Judging by the tightness in everyone’s expressions, this joke is not well-received. Mercedes injects something cold into his arm with a touch more force than necessary. 

“Not amusing,” says Dedue severely. “One more blow from the Hegemon —” 

The dim, distant voice in Dimitri’s head says, _This is the legacy you leave behind, El. Not even I can change that for you._

“— one more blow along with the illnesses you’ve sustained, and you likely would have died. It is a miracle that you live to see the dawn.” 

Dimitri’s eyelids begin to droop. Whatever Mercedes administered to him is working quickly. As darkness overtakes his senses, the last thing he hears is Dedue’s voice. “This future was not worth fighting for without you at the helm, Your Majesty.” 

He decides he will never tell another joke again in his life. 

* * *

_Horsebow Moon, 1188. Castle Fhirdiad, Fhirdiad._

Sometimes, Dimitri wishes he could live without breathing. That way, he can freeze time and capture these moments forever before they vanish in the blink of an eye. 

Silvery morning light filters through a part in the curtains when he awakes the morning after the wedding. His limbs are entangled with Byleth’s. He is still half-asleep, and the sensation of waking up next to her, bed-warmed and beautifully naked, is so surreal that it’s difficult to believe that he isn’t dreaming. Her head rests in the crook of his neck and he feels everything from the flutter of her lashes against his chest to her bony knees edging perilously close to a tender part of his anatomy. 

It’s nice, even if it’s uncomfortable. His hand ghosts over the crown of her head, traces her cheek and the shell of her ear. There’s an imperceptible shift, and Dimitri knows she’s awake. Her eyes flutter open, and she blinks several times before remembering where she is. 

“Good morning, beloved,” he says, and he can’t help the goofy smile on his face. 

She yawns and lifts her head off his aching shoulder. The relief is instantaneous, but the space is cold without her. “Morning,” she murmurs back sleepily. “Sweet dreams?” 

His hands slide to her waist to anchor her in place before she can even think about scooting away. “I dreamed we grew old together,” he replies. 

“Oh?” She props herself up onto an elbow. “What do I look like as an old lady?” 

“Much the same. Except that your hair was white, your face was wrinkly, and you developed a squint.” 

“A squint?” she asks curiously. There is a slight furrow between her brows that Dimitri smooths with his thumb. 

“Yes, a squint. All that time reading in the dark killed your eyesight and you needed me to carry you all around the castle because you kept bumping into the walls.” 

Her fingertips brush a scar below his ribcage, and his breath catches in his throat. She is warm, but her touch is muted where the nerve was gone. “I wouldn’t mind that,” she murmurs, and her hand travels south, resting upon his thigh. “You carrying me in your arms. Just as long as it leads to other things.” 

He hears the suggestion in her tone and sighs in mock frustration. “Beloved, we were eighty years old and we could barely tell left from right. I hardly think we could, even if we tried.” 

“Don’t underestimate me,” she warns. “You could have warts the size of grapes, and I’d still think you’re the handsomest man in the world.” 

He snorts, unused to such flattery. "At that point, I think it would be more helpful if you took me to a cleric." 

The world outside the warmth of their chambers is still a fragile, delicate place. There is plague that sweeps through Enbarr, discord brewing between the lords in the Alliance. Across Fodlan’s throat, the rumblings of an Almyran invasion threaten to uproot the entire country before all is curtailed by the coronation of its errant prince. 

Claude arrives at the wedding uninvited, fashionably late, and with a host of Almyran wyvern riders whose mounts are so contentious that they need to be roosted separately from their Faerghan counterparts. 

His wedding gift, he claims, is lasting peace. 

Dimitri knows that not much within him has changed since the end of the war. He still dreams the nightmare. The dead still haunt every waking minute of every single day, stealing one breath for each one he takes. But for these brief moments, with Byleth’s lips pressing a trail from his neck to his collarbone, Dimitri feels a lightness of spirit that he later realizes is just happiness. 

* * *

_Verdant Rain Moon, 1192. Castle Fhirdiad, Fhirdiad_

His hand rests on the curve of her belly. 

The happiness is so great that he can almost feel his chest cave in. He is blissfully happy. Gloriously ecstatic. So giddy that it’s laughable how easy it is to mistake happiness for sheer terror when all of his doubts and worries bubble to the surface of his mind. _What if I can’t be a good parent? What if they hate me? What if I become like my own father?_

Dimitri is tempted to ask Byleth for guidance, but he knows that her plate already is stacked high with her own worries. She isn’t a complainer by nature, but pregnancy is difficult. She eats more than he thought possible. She resents being henpecked by the people around her. She, who seizes the day the instant she gets out of bed, is unused to the lethargy, sickness, and fatigue that plague her every waking moment. 

Today starts out as a good day. In the peace of their private solarium, they are snuggled together on a chaise as she reads aloud from a book on crop rotation. Sunlight streaming through an open window reflects off her hair. His hand is splayed upon her stomach like a fan and her head rests against his chest. 

_She hasn't aged a day_ , he thinks lovingly as he admires her profile. But then he looks at her smooth, unlined face again and feels a stab of panic. _She truly hasn't aged a day_. 

"Byleth, how old are you?" he asks suddenly. 

She turns the page before he finishes reading it and shrugs much too nonchalantly. "Once you reach a certain point, you stop counting and caring."

Her response throws him so off-balance that he actually laughs. "Nonsense. I couldn't have been more than two or three years your junior at the academy. Why do you speak as though it doesn't matter?"

All his good humor is lost, however, when she shuts the book abruptly. Her neck twists to stare at him. The frown on her face asks, _Why should it matter?_

 _Because,_ he wants to reply, as he tries to downplay his rising panic through shoulder squeezes and arm rubs, _I found my first gray hair not two weeks ago, and you still look young enough to be your father's squire. There is something you’re not telling me._

Her face slips back into its frightening mask of neutrality and he is painfully reminded that he had once distrusted her vacant, glass-blue eyes. Before he learned how to read her silences, he couldn’t understand her at all. Her eyes could have been replaced by marbles and it wouldn't have made a difference in expression. Much has changed since then, but the old fear remains. 

_Are you withholding the truth because you truly don’t know, or because you’re afraid you’ll upset me?_

“Dad never counted birthdays,” she says blandly, “so I never did either.” 

A dark cloud passes over her face, but Dimitri decides to be pushy. "There must surely be a date in his diary. Did you overlook it?" 

She lifts his hand off her stomach and averts her gaze towards the window. "No." 

He detects the warning in her tone and backpedals accordingly. "Alright,” he says, and leaves it at that. 

Byleth soon excuses herself for a nap. Dimitri watches the door shut behind her and is convinced that he has somehow failed their unborn child already. 

* * *

“1159,” she tells him later that evening, as though she hadn’t thoroughly snapped the thread of that awkward conversation by walking away. She holds up Jeralt’s diary and tosses it onto her nightstand. “The twentieth day of the Horsebow moon, 1159.” 

“Then that makes you thirty-three,” he concludes, closing his book as he sits up in bed. “Not a mystery at all.” 

"No," she agrees. "But I rather liked not knowing." 

"Why?"

"I don't like it when people start asking questions I can't answer." 

_That's because you don’t look thirty-three_ , is on the cusp of his lips before he clamps his mouth shut. He already treads thin ice with his tactlessness, and he does not want to risk aggravating her further. He refuses to press her for more answers than she is willing to give, even if it comes at the cost of his own comfort. 

She shrugs off her dressing gown and climbs into bed beside him. Her lips pinch together in a slight grimace. _Does that scare you?_

 _No,_ he lies, as he presses a kiss goodnight to her forehead. _Why should it scare me?_

The room is shrouded in darkness when she blows out the candle. He’s glad her back is flush against his chest because he doesn’t want her to see the worry etched on his face. 

Neither of them can sleep, even though they both close their eyes and pretend. They never speak of it again.

* * *

_19th day of the Ethereal Moon, 1192. Castle Fhirdiad, Fhirdiad_

Byleth goes into labor one month too early. The court braces itself for a tragedy, but Dimitri refuses to entertain such an absurd notion. Her life is in safe hands with Flayn and Mercedes. Their child’s, as well. He ignores the pitying looks and the tight-lipped smiles of the courtiers around him as he flies up the staircase two steps at a time towards the palace infirmary. 

Still, he can’t shake that awful, gut-kicking feeling of helplessness when Manuela bars him entry. Behind her, clerics rush in a frenzy, carrying clean sheets, washbasins, and staves. 

“Let me see her, _please,_ ” he begs. _One last time_ almost leaves his lips, but he chokes those words back before they have a chance to become true. “I need to know that she’s okay —” 

“— And she will be,” Manuela reassures him. When he pushes forward, she places a hand on his chest to stop him. “It’s uncommon, but these things happen. Being there with her might distress her further."

“But I’m her _husband_ ,” he insists. With clenched fists, he strains to peer over her shoulder. Byleth is somewhere in the middle of all the panic, completely hidden from view. “If those qualifications aren’t enough, then as your king, I comm —” 

Manuela reaches the end of her rope. “King or no king, you're a man, and that means you’re a nuisance. She might be in labor the whole night!” 

"Then I’ll wait here. I don't care how long it takes." 

"No, Your Majesty, _we_ will come to _you_. Good day!" 

The door slams behind her, and Dimitri is saved from kicking it down by Dedue's placating hand on his shoulder. "She's right. It wouldn't be wise to fluster the clerics with your presence. They may overlook something important." 

_Then perhaps we ought to hire better clerics_ , Dimitri thinks, but banishes that uncharitable thought as soon as it crosses his mind. He was ashamed at himself for pulling rank on Manuela and made a mental note to apologize after the delivery. 

Moping and sulking serve little purpose while he waits for news about Byleth’s condition. _Everything will be fine_ , he tells himself. Dedue follows close behind him as they depart from the infirmary at a slow funeral march. _Byleth will be okay_. 

* * *

Dimitri pulls the curtains to his study when he doesn’t see the moon emerging from behind the clouds. It’s a bad omen, not one he wants to see while Byleth is giving birth. 

“Is it truly necessary to do this now, Your Majesty?” Dedue asks. 

There is a note of pained exasperation to his tone that Dimitri has never heard from him before. In response, he drains his wine goblet in one gulp and ignores Dedue’s frown as he pours himself another. “There’s no putting it off, Dedue. I ought to have done this the moment we announced the pregnancy. It's just careless leaving it be at this point." 

“You already have a perfectly serviceable will. There is nothing outdated about it.” 

“From four years ago. Right before the wedding. Isn’t it time I looked at it again?” 

“Review it, yes,” Dedue says stiffly. “Not draft an entirely new one.” 

Dimitri shakes his head. “I want to write my own will with my own wishes. Not one that I have to make concessions for. Especially not one where Gilbert and the inner council have the final say.” 

When Dedue doesn’t protest further, Dimitri distracts himself by sharpening his quill, purposefully ignoring the waves of wordless disapproval coming off of Dedue’s tapping foot.

With Dedue as his witness, he begins to write:

_I, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, by the grace of the Goddess Sothis, King of Faerghus, Grand Duke of the Alliance, and Ruling Steward of Adrestia, being of sound mind and memory, make and set out my testament concerning my wishes and moveable possessions in the following manner on the twentieth day of the Ethereal Moon, 1192._

“First order of business,” says Dimitri, drawing a deep breath. He dips his quill into his inkwell. “My funeral.” 

_I beseech the construction of an empty tomb alongside the bodies of my forefathers in the Blaiddyd crypt of Itha. I bequeath my body to be buried at the cathedral of Garreg Mach Monastery without pomp entering or costly expenses done thereabout._

A soft knock comes at the door. At Dimitri’s nod, Dedue steps across the chambers to open it, revealing the archbishop standing before the doorframe. Though travel-worn and weary, Seteth smiles as he crosses the threshold. Cradled in his arms is a wrapped box that he sets onto the desk. “Early happy returns, Your Majesty.” 

Dimitri places his quill down as glances at the clock. His nerves are such a jelly of terror that his own birthday completely slips his mind. “I wish I could return the sentiment," he says, standing to greet him. "I’ve never been more anxious in my entire life.” 

“Have a care for what Byleth is currently enduring and you’ll be fine. I hope I’m not disturbing you at this hour.” 

“Not at all. I couldn’t sleep. Have you been to the infirmary? How is —"

Seteth nods his greetings at Dedue and pulls out the chair in front of Dimitri’s desk. “Flayn tells me that there are no discernable complications. Byleth is lucid and speaking, and that’s always a good sign.” 

His panic refuses to abate. “What about the baby?” 

“Taking their time, as they always do in these situations,” Seteth says wryly. He tilts his chin at the gift on the desk. “I intended to give this to you tomorrow, but Manuela told me you needed it now.” 

Pulling the ribbon, Dimitri lifts the lid and for the first time that evening, his face lights up. But then he shoots Dedue a sheepish, apologetic grin. Inside is a tempting amber bottle of aged wine. “I won’t ask how you managed this,” Dimitri says appreciatively, holding it up to the lamplight. “But thank you.” 

“My own private cellar,” Seteth says proudly, folding his hands across his lap. “Morfis plums, aged for over four hundred years. I drank something similar when Flayn was born.” He catches the disapproval on Dedue’s face, and then his eyes flick to the parchment on Dimitri’s desk. He remarks, “Rather insensitive of your council to put you to work while the queen is giving birth." 

“I’m revising my will,” Dimitri explains, still eagerly examining the bottle. Anything that has fermented for over four hundred years must surely be strong enough for him to taste. “Would you care to help?” 

Seteth grumbles about the timing, but he agrees to assist with the finer details. Personal reparations for Duscur. Coffers to be emptied and funnelled to orphanages across the country. Land to be redistributed. Dimitri scrawls a hasty note onto his ledger and tears it out before either of them can see it. _Itha Plains — Dedue Molinaro._ He resolves to speak to his factotum about it in the morning.

But once they begin the business of bequeathing personal possessions, Dimitri realizes very quickly that he owns very little when there is nothing for him to leave behind for his family. 

“Almost everything you own passes onto the next monarch,” Seteth says apologetically. “Once you die, it’s not yours to give away. Not even in your will.” 

“My stepmother left behind a large collection of emeralds,” Dimitri protests. “Byleth can’t even inherit that?” 

“Disregarding the fact that we both know she has no use for such things, I’m afraid the answer is still no.”

All the air is knocked out of Dimitri’s chest. He tamps down the despair as he stares at the blank space on the parchment. “Then…I have nothing to give her. Not Areadbhar, my wedding ring, or even my eyepatch, since that must be buried with me." He looks to Seteth beseechingly, and then to Dedue. "I…what else can I do?"

Seteth's expression softens considerably. “There are laws you can pass that can help ease the transition from queen to queen regent. Remember that she has the support of the church in this as well. She is loved in the Alliance and respected in Almyra. The Empire presents a bigger challenge, but Ferdinand will be there to smooth the transition.”

“That’s not what I meant. I want her to _have_ something to remember me by. What can I leave?” 

A flash of pain crosses Seteth’s eyes. “She’ll have the memories, Dimitri. They will comfort her more than emeralds ever will.” 

These reassurances do little to assuage his sorrow until he remembers that the memories must be all that Seteth have left too. “But —” 

“There are other ways to ensure that she and your child will be taken care of in the event of your untimely passing,” Seteth says gently. “She will never be alone.” 

“You’ll look after her, won’t you?” Dimitri’s voice cracks only a little, but it’s enough to startle them. “Both of you. You must promise me to look after her when —” 

“— Dimitri,” Dedue interrupts. He says nothing more, but the comforting rumble in his voice is all Dimitri needs to pull himself together. 

“We can stop here,” Seteth suggests. “Not everything has to be written tonight.” 

“No, I can continue,” Dimitri insists, but he knows it’s a bad idea. He wipes his tears hastily before they fall and stain the parchment. 

_And of this, I make and ordain mine Executors. That is to say, Duke Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Margrave Sylvain Jose Gautier, and Dame Ingrid Brandl Galatea, to put their good wills and help for the performance of my final wishes._

"Do they know?" Seteth asks, looking at him askance. 

His quill flies across the parchment. “They do. We made promises after Enbarr.” 

By the time he reaches the end of the parchment, his hands are trembling so terribly that his writing is almost illegible. 

_In witness whereof, to this my present testament I have set my seal and these witnesses given the date abovesaid: Dedue Molinaro, Right Hand of King, and Lord Seteth, ordained by the grace of the Goddess herself, Archbishop of the Church of Seiros._

Dimitri has a terrible time disguising his relief when Dedue takes his leave of the room once the will is signed, sealed, and filed away in his desk drawer. He claims to report back with Byleth’s condition, but Dimitri knows better. He recognizes the threads of distress in Dedue’s body language. The entire process has upset him deeply. Dimitri wants to spare him the pain of the next difficult conversation he must have with Seteth.

“I must ask you something,” Dimitri begins. They are both seated before the hearth, sharing the gifted wine bottle between them. "And I’d like you to answer me truthfully and off the record.” 

“Of course,” Seteth replies instantly. “I’d do nothing less for the king.” 

Dimitri draws a deep breath and braces himself for an answer he does not want to hear. “How long will Byleth live?" 

A shadow immediately passes over Seteth’s face. His hesitation is telling enough to confirm Dimitri’s worst fears. "It’s difficult to say. Only time will tell. But if our suspicions are correct —" 

"Ah," says Dimitri. "So you _have_ discussed this with her before." 

“I have,” Seteth admits shortly — a little too quickly for Dimitri’s liking. “Though we were hardly conspiring behind your back. It was Rhea’s final wish that Byleth succeeds her as archbishop. I was merely reminding her that I am only holding the position until she is ready to assume it.” 

“And when would that be? Fifty years in the future? One hundred?” 

Although Dimitri hadn’t meant to sound flippant, Seteth levels him with a steady, measured stare that he cannot decipher. His eyes flicker gold, and Dimitri is now keenly aware that the man he is speaking to isn’t mortal at all, but someone far wiser and far more ancient than the limits of human understanding would ever allow. In his long life, Seteth had witnessed the genocide of his people. He had seen entire civilizations topple and rise from the ashes. He was forced to watch the entire world move on without him as his own history faded into obscurity. Dimitri would be a fool to take his words lightly.

"Byleth may have several more centuries ahead of her,” Seteth finally replies. “More than this wine bottle and more than me, for that matter.”

"And what about our child?" 

"Again, it is difficult to say. This is a complicated and unprecedented matter. You are a human, and —” 

“And Byleth isn’t?” Dimitri asks warily, careful to keep his tone neutral. 

To his absolute surprise, Seteth sounds genuinely uncertain. "I’m still not quite sure. Is she human or Nabatean? My instincts are inclined towards the latter, but even then, only time will tell. There is also her parentage to consider. Her mother —"

“— died in childbirth, I know.” Dimitri sighs heavily. “There was also some issue with Byleth’s heartbeat, but I don’t know the specifics. She dislikes talking about it.” 

Seteth looks troubled. His eyes flick towards the door, and Dimitri has a sinking feeling about what he is about to say next. “That’s…that’s — yes, that is true. The only person who could give you a definitive answer to your question is Rhea, and she's not here." 

“Why Rhea?” Dimitri blurts. "What does she have to do with any of this?" 

“Byleth’s mother was Rhea’s daughter. Did she not tell you?” 

A lengthy pause passes between them. “No,” he says roughly. “She did not.” 

Seteth’s fingers trace the rim of his goblet. “Ah. Well. Now you know.” 

The revelation is so momentarily frightening that all the blood drains from Dimitri’s face. Not once has it ever crossed his mind that Rhea and Byleth might be related, and he mentally kicks himself for not seeing it sooner. The similarities between the two are far too great to ignore. He reaches for the wine, pours a splash into his goblet, and drains it in single swill. At this rate, he and Seteth will finish the bottle before the baby is even born. 

Alcohol sears down his throat when he rasps, "Forget about all that for now. What if our child doesn’t look Nabatean? What will happen to their lifespan then?" 

Seteth sighs wearily. "You understand that I am the only Nabatean in existence who married a human. I may seem like an authority on such matters, but I'm really not." 

"But Flayn —" 

"Flayn is my daughter, but she is also a saint with a unique crest. However, she has also spent hundreds of years in a healing coma. That makes her a difficult point of comparison.” 

Just as soon as Dimitri’s spirits rise, his heart sinks to his toes when Seteth adds: “However, even if your child does not inherit any Nabatean traits, I would still advise you to bear such an eventuality in mind. Difficulties with succession may arise in the future if an immortal monarch were to sire a mortal heir. If the truth about their heritage ever came to light, their life may even be in danger.” 

Dimitri sits up, paces in front of the hearth, and leans over the mantlepiece. The shock is so cruel and so abrupt that he must grip the ledge for support. He and Seteth are both quiet for a while. “Seteth,” he says, and his voice comes out strangled. 

“Yes, Your Majesty?” 

“I will die first,” he states calmly. This is neither a question nor an off-hand statement. This is a fact — a truth that he must learn to accept as he ages into an old man filled with regrets while Byleth, youthful and beautiful as ever, picks up the pieces he leaves behind.

Seteth doesn’t flinch. “Yes,” he replies quietly. “You will. That won’t be for many years, though. You still have time.” 

_Not enough,_ Dimitri thinks miserably. He twists the ring on his finger and gazes into the fire. _Never enough_. 

* * *

_20th day of the Ethereal Moon, 1192. Castle Fhirdiad, Fhirdiad_

Ten fingers. Ten toes. Rounded ear tips and such tiny precious hands. Dimitri is entranced. Perched at Byleth’s bedside, he cradles the swaddled little bean of an infant sleeping peacefully in his arms. He swears that their buttoned eyes were gazing right into his soul when they were open. 

“Will they be blue?” Byleth asks Mercedes hopefully. “And his hair — will he look like his father?” 

“Perhaps, but he is still very small,” Mercedes warns, concerned with other more pressing matters. “He will require loving care for the next few months until he gains his strength.” 

“Of course,” Dimitri says promptly. His eye does not stray from his son for a single second. “Nothing less.” 

“A name, Your Majesty?” asks Seteth. “Perhaps something to honor both of your fathers.” 

Dedue hums his approval. “Lambert, Rodrigue, Jeralt…. All would be fine names, honoring the men who have shaped both of your lives.” 

A familiar, finger-like chill creeps down Dimitri’s spine. The ghostly spectres descend upon the room with a fury that makes his vision go dark. Even now, at the happiest moment of his life, the voices shriek their taunts, ringing in overlapping echoes in his mind. He swallows back his revulsion and grazes his fingertip over his son’s cheek.

_Not now. Please don’t spoil this moment for me, I’m begging you. Please...._

“— Your Majesty?” Dedue says. His voice yanks Dimitri out of his reverie. “Are any of these names to your liking?” 

“No,” Dimitri murmurs, to the quiet astonishment of the entire room. “Let’s honor the living for a change.” He exchanges a look with Byleth. She nods, places a hand over his scarred one, and squeezes. He knows she understands. 

“Alexei Molinaro Blaiddyd,” she decides. “May he grow to be as strong and steadfast as his namesake.” 

Dedue goes slack-jawed. All the clean blankets in his arms go tumbling to the carpet. “Y-Your Grace! I — I could _never_ —” 

“Come now, my friend,” Dimitri says genially, springing from the bed. He gently places Alexei into Dedue’s trembling arms and grins. “Now is not the time for tears. See how he looks at you? He’s taken notice of you already.” 

Yawning widely, little Alexei makes a pronounced twitch at the disturbance as he stirs back to consciousness. One eye blinks open — then two. His gaze darts between Dedue, Dimitri, and the ceiling. He opens his mouth, inhales, and unleashes the most ungodly, high-pitched shriek that Dimitri has ever heard in his life. 

As Dedue startles, Dimitri scrambles, and Seteth cringes, Byleth’s laughter rings over the abrupt chaos in the room. She's wincing, but that doesn't stop her from saying, “Well, now we know he doesn’t get his vocal cords from me."

“Poor baby!” Mercedes coos, peering over Dedue’s shoulder. “He must be hungry.” 

“We’ll take our leave,” says Seteth quietly. He ushers the remaining healers out of the room and draws the curtain around Byleth’s bed to allow her some privacy. “My sincerest congratulations, Your Majesties.” 

“Thank you, Seteth,” Byleth says distractedly. Her eyes shift with mild trepidation as Dedue deposits the crying baby into her arms. She holds Alexei awkwardly, like a sack of potatoes, and looks rather pleadingly to Mercedes for help. 

“One hand under his head,” Mercedes says soothingly, unaffected by Alexei’s wails. “And support his neck….yes, that’s it. Try not to make any sudden movements. Would you like to try feeding him now?” 

Under Mercedes’ careful instruction, Byleth unlaces the front of her nightgown and gingerly repositions Alexei in her arms. Red-faced, with balled fists, and squalling with unbridled fury, he immediately calms when he latches onto Byleth’s breast. Her face lights up with such immediate joy that Dimitri thinks of Seteth’s warning one last time and anguish grips him like a vice. 

“Why Alexei?” Dimitri asks her. He doesn't think it's a wise idea to name their child after him. 

“Because it’s your birthday,” she replies, and her smile is positively radiant.

Dimitri blinks back his tears. He looks at the child who is not only his son, but also the future king who will inherit the sins of his father and the blood of the Goddess herself. In his mind’s eye, he sees his son climbing the tower of his nightmare, and his gut wrenches with a feeling that both agonizes and aggrieves him. How old will Alexei be when he is fatherless and alone in a world without a hand to reach out and guide him? 

_I love you_ , Dimitri thinks sadly. He puts out a finger and Alexei's much smaller ones grip it tightly. _I will always love you. I will surely find you and love you again in the next life. I promise._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thank you to the beta team for the feedback, especially for the last scene with felix.

In five short years, Alexei grows out of frailness into a strong boy, a brilliant and clever one. He likes horses, apple tarts, and riding on his father’s shoulders. He prefers sunny days to snowy ones, and has the strangest aversion to butterflies and other flying insects. 

As Dimitri grows into fatherhood, the ever-present furrow in his brow uncreases itself and is replaced by laugh lines at the corners of his eye and lips. Without the threat of war looming over his shoulders, he moves from day to day with lightness and ease, no longer propelled by a sense of overwhelming doom. Instead, his posture relaxes, and he trades his wartime anxieties for smaller matters. _Has Alexei recovered from his cold? Does he sleep well? Is his head still aching? Did he find that toy he was looking for?_

The night Dimitri arrives home after the long, exhaustive campaign for Shambhala’s defeat, he heads straight to the nursery. The soft glow of lamplight spills from the crack under the door. He steels himself by taking a deep breath before knocking and entering the room. 

Alexei’s entire face lights up when he sees him. “Father!” he shrieks, scrambling out of bed. “You’re home!” 

The moment Dimitri rushes forward to pick up Alexei and spin him in his arms, he marvels, not for the first time, that _he_ is the father of this perfect, beautiful child. This abrupt surge of love crests over him like a tidal wave when Alexei matches his burst of laughter with a peal of his own, and then the feeling grows fiercer when Alexei presses a kiss to his cheek and wraps his tiny arms around his neck. 

"I missed you so much," Alexei says, still breathless from giggling. 

Dimitri peers deeply into his son’s seaglass green eyes and brushes his hair from his forehead. His heart stutters for the smallest fraction of a second. "I missed you too," he says back, and holds Alexei tightly to his chest. 

* * *

_Garland Moon, 1197. Castle Blaiddyd, Itha Plains._

White flowers never grow in the rolling moors surrounding Castle Blaiddyd, but that doesn’t stop Alexei from weaving garlands of berries and bell heather for his mother to cheer her up. The pollen-laden scent of summer is high on the wind when Byleth gives birth to their second child. They name her Helena Cethleann, and she is the brightest light in their lives. 

“I think Heleenie is gonna be a cat when she grows up,” says Alexei. He wades waist-deep in heather, and his circlet almost tumbles off his head as he hops from foot to foot. “All she does is poop and sleep.” 

Not quite following his logic, Dimitri can only nod. When Alexei veers off the trodden path to examine a pebble on the ground, Dimitri picks him up and sets him back on course. Their destination is the lake, where a picnic lunch awaits them by the murky shore. But at the snail’s pace Alexei sets, Dimitri reckons they won't arrive before nightfall.

“You know, Alexei, that’s all you did when you were her age,” Dimitri remarks cheerfully. “Eat, poop, and sleep.” 

Alexei’s face scrunches in momentary confusion. “And I didn’t become a cat?” 

“No. To the relief of everyone in the castle, you are still very much a little boy.” 

“I’m not gonna be little forever,” he says reproachfully. “I’m gonna be a blade breaker like Grandpa Jeralt. The strongest sword breaker in the land!” 

Shaking his head, Dimitri steps forward to loop Alexei’s scarf around the exposed part of his neck. Early summers in Itha are chilly, and Alexei’s fat cheeks are rosy red as he skips up and down the path. _The sun and the air,_ Dimitri thinks to himself, admiring the way the sun glints off Alexei’s tousled hair. _My son and heir._

Before Alexei can pause again to collect another yet pebble, Dimitri picks him up and hoists him to sit upon his shoulders. He winces when Alexei grips his hair for purchase before saying, “Your grandfather didn’t break swords on purpose, Alexei. He wielded them because he was the captain of the Knights of Seiros.” 

“If I become a sword breaker, does that mean I have to live at the monastery?” 

“Yes, with the archbishop and Alois.” 

“I don’t like that,” Alexei grumbled. “That’s too far away from you and Mother.” 

“Then that means you must choose something else,” Dimitri concludes. “What about becoming a king? Wouldn’t you like to be the king of Faerghus when you grow up?” 

“No.” 

Alexei says this with such certainty that Dimitri immediately stiffens. “Why not?” 

He tightens his grip upon Dimitri’s hair. “Be-caaaause.” 

“Because…” Dimitri prompts, waiting for an answer.

Alexei scrambles off Dimitri’s shoulders, giggling before running off. “Because, because, because!” he calls behind his back. 

Dimitri reins in his exasperation with a noiseless sigh. They’ve reached the grassy shoreline, and Alexei has already discarded his shoes. He plunders the picnic basket for the tarts hidden beneath the sandwiches, then emerges triumphant before Dimitri jogs to catch up to him. 

It's not until the last crumb of lunch has been wiped away and they're both lying lazily on the picnic blanket that Alexei broaches the subject again. Dimitri gazes at the gentle waves lapping the bank, mentally drafting a speech about unity to the Almyran delegation. Then, a small finger pokes him several times in the cheek, causing him to lose focus. 

“Father, do I _have_ to be king?” 

Craning his neck, Dimitri is startled to see that Alexei’s wide, doe-eyes are suddenly very close to his own, filled with apprehension and worry. His expression also threatens tears, but that concerns Dimitri less than the question that was posed. 

“I’d like you to give it an honest attempt before you say no,” Dimitri says, careful not to refuse him outright. “But it’s important to remember that you can always rely on your mother’s support, and everyone else’s, too. You won’t be king all by yourself, Alexei.”

“But — but if I do that, I can’t see.” 

“What?” 

“If I’m the king,” Alexei repeats tremulously, and his lower lip begins to wobble, “I can’t see.” 

Dimitri sits up properly now. He places Alexei in his lap, but Alexei fidgets, refusing to meet him in the eye. “I still don’t understand, Alexei. What do you mean?” 

Alexei slaps his palm over his right eye and bursts into sobs. “I don’t wanna lose it!” he wails. “It’s _mine_! They can’t take it away from me!” 

Dimitri recoils when Alexei flings himself onto the picnic blanket. “Wha — what in the name of the Goddess are you talking about?!” 

“My eye! They can’t have my eye! Father, I need it to see!” 

“N-No one is going to take your eye away from you! Who told you that?” 

Tears streaming down his face, snot running from his nose, Alexei cries at the top of his lungs, “Uncle told me that if I wanna be king, _I can only have one eye_!” 

A muscle twitches in Dimitri’s neck. His hand self-consciously goes to the eye-patch covering his right eye, and a bubble of hysteria begins to form in his gut. If he laughs, Alexei will only cry harder, but if he doesn't, his head might explode.

“Which uncle?” Dimitri asks in a tone as even as he can manage.

Alexei’s crying dissolves into thin, hiccuping gasps. His bottom lip sticks out piteously as he wipes his tears with the back of his sleeve. “U-Uncle Sylvain...” 

“I’m going to have some _very_ strong words with him about this.” Dimitri places Alexei across his lap, rubbing soothing circles onto his back. “Exactly who is going to take your eye away from you, young man?” 

“I — I don’t know!” Alexei cries wildly. “The — the slithering people…?” 

Half an hour later, by the time Alexei has been sufficiently calmed and able to hear reason, a thin layer of mist has shrouded the lake like a veil. It’s an overcast day, but with the sun shining through the cloud cover, the entire moor is bathed in silvery-white light. 

“Look, Alexei,” Dimitri says, pointing at the beams reflecting off the water. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” 

Alexei glances and nods, nestling his head further in the crook of Dimitri’s elbow. “Father, are you sure I can keep both my eyes?” 

“When we return to Fhirdiad, I’ll take you to the hall of kings,” Dimitri promises. “There, you’ll see I’m the only monarch in Faerghus’ history with only one eye.” 

“Okay,” Alexei grumbles. He’s not entirely convinced, but Dimitri doesn’t expect him to be. Alexei tilts his head back, raising a hand to trace the patch on Dimitri’s face. “What happened?” 

Panic stabs through Dimitri in a flash, and his face burns hot and cold all at once. Years have been spent mentally crafting a response to this inevitable question, but all the right answers are lost, drifting in a sea far away. He wishes he could say something clever to bring some levity to the conversation, but his mind always draws a blank. 

However, as painful as the truth might be, he doesn’t want to be the kind of father who shies away from it. After all, there’s a valuable lesson to be learned from the mistakes he made in his youth. 

Heaving a deep sigh, Dimitri rearranges Alexei in his lap so that they are sitting face-to-face. He grasps his son’s little hands in both of his own. “When I was a boy who didn't want to be king, a bad man took it away from me because I had little regard for my life. That was foolish, careless, and it will remain one of the greatest shames of my life.” 

Alexei ducks his head, unable to meet Dimitri’s eye or find the words to bridge the silence that ensues.

Dimitri gently tilts Alexei’s chin up with his finger. “I promise that will never happen to you." 

Wiping his nose with the back of his sleeve, Alexei scrunches his face. "Why not?"

“Because I love you,” Dimitri replies because he’s not scared to say it. “And that means I vow to guide and protect you. I promise that you will never go a day in your life doubting that I love you.” 

“Even when you’re gone?” 

Dimitri’s throat catches. The wide-eyed innocence in Alexei’s expression tells him that his son is unaware of the greater implication looming behind his words. Dimitri does not like to dwell too hard on that. Instead, he fixes his gaze to the far distance when he replies, “Even when I’m gone.” 

Alexei immediately scrambles up to wrap his arms around his father’s waist. “Hugs,” he says simply, and his voice is muffled against Dimitri’s chest. 

They sit like that for a long time as they watch the clouds roll across the sky, melting into the amber beams of the sunset. All sense of shame or pain that came from Dimitri’s earlier confession is stripped away as Dimitri returns Alexei’s tight embrace. He closes his eye, sifting through the foggy mire of his childhood recollections for a similar memory with his own father. 

He finds none, none at all, but for the first time, the thought doesn’t aggrieve him like it would have before. 

“Will I be a good king?” Alexei asks in a small voice, breaking the spell.

“Of course you will.” 

“How do you know?” 

"Because you are far wiser and kinder than me when I was your age, Alexei." 

“But I’m only five!” 

Dimitri tousles Alexei’s hair. “You’ll make a fine king, Alexei. You needn’t worry about a single thing.” 

But doubt creases Alexei’s brow, and he shakes his head. “But Father, there…there can’t be two kings, can there?” 

All Dimitri’s humor is quickly lost, and the smile leaves his face. "No," he says gently, gazing at the lake. "There cannot." 

Alexei gasps. “Do we have to fight for it?” 

Dimitri doesn’t have the energy to answer right away; the entire conversation has taken a greater toll on him than he anticipated. He stands to fold the picnic blanket into the basket, then leads Alexei back onto the path towards the castle. Byleth will worry if they linger too long at the lake before dinner. “No, son. We don’t have to fight for the crown. When you are ready to wear it, I will give it to you.” 

“Good,” says Alexei, nodding solemnly. “I don’t want you to lose your other eye.” 

* * *

_Wyvern Moon, 1200, the Fraldarius crypt, Fraldarius Keep._

Dimitri remembers a game he used to play with Glenn and Felix as children, where they would pretend to be wolves chasing the rodents that lurk in the crypt beneath Fraldarius Keep. Sharing one candle between them, Glenn would lead them down the lightless tunnel, whispering stories about rats the size of dogs, and laughing at the way Felix would whimper in fear. 

The memory brings a grimace to Dimitri’s face as he watches Felix yank the iron ring set in the entrance to the crypt. The door resists, but with Dimitri’s help, it swings open with a creak so high-pitched that Alexei immediately cowers behind his leg. 

“Scary,” Alexei whispers, but he still leans forward to take a closer look. His breath fogs up before his face, vanishing in the darkness looming ahead.

“No kidding,” Felix grunts. He swats the cobwebs away from his face. “I haven’t been in the damn place for five years. Bea, hand me the torch.” 

“Say please, Dad.” 

“Bea, _now_. I need it to see.” 

Bea tosses her pigtails defiantly, but with a pout, she surrenders the torch to her father. After Felix lights it and leads the way down to the crypt, she grabs Alexei’s hand and zips down the winding staircase, both of them giggling all the way. 

"Oi, you two!" Felix yells after them. "The steps are slippery!" 

“They’ll be fine,” Dimitri reassures him. Their footfalls echo against the stone walls as they follow the children down into the crypt. “Didn’t we do the same when we were young?” 

“Yeah, with Glenn,” Felix says with a scoff. “And he wasn’t the smartest, remember?” 

Eventually, they meet Alexei and Bea at the bottom, where they are chasing each other between two stone wolves standing guard at the entrance to the tombs. At their fathers’ footsteps, they both duck behind the statues, giggling loudly.

“You kids could have broken your necks!” Felix shouts, wasting no time for reprimands. “What were you thinking?” 

Bea’s head pokes out first. “We were playing knights and knaves!” she retorts, and Dimitri doesn’t miss the dull glint of a diadem adorning her hair. “We were the knights, and you were the knaves.” 

Felix narrows his eyes when she draws closer. "Bea, what’s that thing on your head?” 

“Nothing!” 

“Beatrix!” 

“It belongs to a dead person,” Alexei complains loudly, next to emerge from behind the statue. “Uncle, tell her to give it back.” 

“Finders, keepers!” Bea retorts. She sticks her tongue out at both of them. 

However, after much squabbling and coaxing from her father, Bea reluctantly relinquishes the diadem. Felix raises it to the flickering torchlight, squinting. “The hell? Where’d you find this?” 

"The stone hag on top of that box," Bea replies much too innocently. “Over there, see?” 

Their heads pivot to where Bea points at the tomb closest to the gate. A mouldering statue of one of Felix’s ancestors rests atop a plinth behind the stone casket, and it is very conspicuously missing a diadem atop its head. While Dimitri wonders how on earth Bea climbed the statue, Felix’s face goes oddly slack. 

“Bea,” Felix says in a tight voice. “That’s graverobbing.” 

“I told you!” Alexei shouts, and his voice is a higher pitch than normal. “That dead person’s ghost is gonna haunt your dreams tonight!” 

Felix scoffs before pocketing the diadem, deaf to Bea’s immediate protests. “There’s no such thing as ghosts, Alexei.” 

“Yes, there are,” says Alexei indignantly, crossing his arms. “Uncle Claude told me a story about dead people who come back as ghosts ‘cause they have too much regret.” 

Felix glances quickly at Dimitri, who has gone deathly still. An all-too-familiar throb has resurfaced in Dimitri’s head, clamping around his mind like a pair of hot tongs. In the shadows cast by the torch, Glenn’s skeletal ghost flickers around Alexei’s shadow, rippling like water against the stonework. 

“Like I said,” Felix says, rolling his eyes, “that’s just a story. There’s no such thing as —” 

“— Auntie Mercie told me a ghost story about a dead girl who eats faces,” Bea interrupts in hushed tones, and her face glows with excitement. “Can those ghosts live here?” 

Alexei shakes his head, laughing. “No, that’s silly. Those ghosts haunt graveyards.” He points at the crypt, perilously close to Glenn’s spectral skull. “The ghosts down here live in those statues.” 

“Alright, alright,” Felix says loudly. “That’s enough about ghosts —” 

Bea scrunches her face. “Is a graveyard the outside thing with the tombstones? There’s dead people there too, right?”

"Yes, they’re nice for picnics!” Alexei pipes up. 

Bea’s mouth forms a small ‘o’ of wonder. "When people die, they have a _lot_ of options.” 

While all three of them break into conversation, Dimitri swallows thickly, almost dizzy from the blood that has rushed to his ears. On some deep, visceral level, he had anticipated some unpleasantness with Glenn or even Rodrigue during this impromptu trip to their tombs, but he never expected the children — 

_It’s not their fault,_ he tells himself, unclenching his fists. _You’re a hopeless case if it’s taken you this long to let go of the past. The children don’t need to see you lose your mind over a silly conversation about ghosts._

 _They weren’t just talking about ghosts,_ whispers Glenn’s traitorous voice, curling in a breath colder than the chill of the crypt. _When some people die, they don’t get to choose where they are buried. And those men die like true knights. Don’t they, Dimitri?_

Dimitri knows better than to answer Glenn’s taunts. Although time has taught him that the Glenn he cherished in his youth is not the same apparition who haunts his memories now, the old fear persists. He hardly remembers Glenn’s face. He scarcely remembers what his voice sounds like above a whisper. 

A small hand tugs his sleeve, yanking him out of his reverie before he has the chance to recompose himself. 

"Father," Alexei says solemnly. He must have noticed Dimitri's uncharacteristic silence throughout this entire exchange. "When you die, where do you want to be buried?" 

Dimitri chokes, and Felix immediately pinches the bridge of his nose, groaning loudly to mask the noise. When he shifts the torch away from Dimitri’s face, Glenn’s ghost vanishes into the dark.

"You kids seriously need to lighten up, or else you’re going to make the king faint,” Felix says, exasperated. He nudges them towards the crypt. “Bea, go play hide and seek with the prince." 

“I don’t wanna play hide and seek,” she whines, pushing back. “I wanna go treasure hunting with Alexei.” 

“Treasure hunting?” Felix echoes. He narrows both eyes. “What, for more stuff like that diadem?” 

Nonplussed by his tone, Bea jumps, reaching out to snatch it from his cloak before he gently swats her hand away. “Alexei needs a crown too, since he’s gonna be the king!” 

Dimitri watches Felix crouch down to meet Bea at eye-level, taking both her hands into his own. “Bea, haven’t I taught you that stealing is wrong?” 

“It’s not stealing if they’re dead!” 

“Those trinkets at the tombs aren’t yours, Bea. Would it kill you to have some respect for the dead?" 

She blows a loud, prolonged raspberry at him. "The dead are _dead_ , Dad. They don't need trinkets or crowns." 

With that, she runs off. Felix wears such a pinched look of consternation that Dimitri would have laughed at the irony if he wasn’t already so shaken. Alexei is already gone as well, having taken the opportunity to get a headstart on hide and seek. 

“Why is it so hard for you to say no to her?” Dimitri wonders aloud. He shudders, but it has nothing to do with the underground chill of the crypt. “She ate three tarts for breakfast this morning, and you couldn’t say no to her then." 

This accusation is met with a sullen grunt from Felix, but he actually relents. “Yeah, well. I love her, is there a problem with that?” 

Mirth overtakes the fear that had paralyzed Dimitri only moments before, but in truth, the most he can manage is a half-hearted grin. He exhales noiselessly, slowly, shaking it off. He follows as Felix leads the way between the stone wolves at the entrance, where they can hear the children’s pattering footsteps from deeper within. 

He ignores the unflinching gazes of the Fraldarius dead guarding their decaying remains as they walk past the rows of mouldering tombs. Proud, hard, and somber, the statues’ faces are as austere as the cold marble capturing their likenesses. Their eyes seem to flicker and glare in the torchlight with every sepulchure they passed, making it impossible for Dimitri to dismiss the children’s earlier remarks about ghosts. 

Felix must have been similarly spooked because Dimitri hears him mutter, “Ghosts living in the statues.” He shakes his head. “Goddess, that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. What were those kids thinking?” 

“In hindsight, it’s actually quite funny,” Dimitri remarks.

Felix shoots him a pained look from over his shoulder. “Why am I not surprised that you’d find that funny?” 

They continue on in the darkness, silent until Felix comes to a halt before the final row of tombs. Three of them sit side by side. One is without a seal, and the other is missing a statue. The thought that Felix will eventually rest in one of them disturbs Dimitri so deeply that he has to take a step back, only to then stifle a shout when he comes face-to-face with an alarmingly lifelike statue of Rodrigue. 

“You have my uncle to thank for that,” Felix grumbles as he dips his torch to light the candles. “He had it made the night he received the missive about the old man’s death.” 

Dimitri glances quickly at the empty plinth atop the tomb next to Rodrigue. “But not for Glenn?” 

Felix shakes his head. “He never got around to it. Kept putting it off, making excuses for years. Then he died.” 

“Oh.” 

When Felix turns his back, Dimitri allows his shoulders to slump just the tiniest bit. Had it not been for Alexei, he never would have understood Rodrigue’s reasoning. Glenn deserves a place in the Fraldarius crypt as much as the rest of Felix’s ancestors. But now, the empty space above his tomb gives Dimitri nothing but an overwhelming sense of relief. No parent should ever have to bear the pain of burying their child. 

Once all the candles are lit, Felix unbuckles the Aegis Shield from his shoulder and places it at the foot of Rodrigue’s likeness. 

“Well,” Felix says to his father tightly. His voice holds only the barest hint of sorrow. “That’s that.” 

They gaze at the shield for a long pause, at the light that refuses to glint off its bleached, weathered surface. There’s no closure, no sense of finality, not even with the entire truth about Duscur laid bare to history. Dimitri isn’t sure what Felix wants him to say. Any gesture of sympathy or kindness was likely to be brushed off or met with outright hostility. So instead, Dimitri takes a step back, glancing across the vaulted archway to where Alexei and Bea are collecting pebbles near the entrance.

Twenty-four years. Twenty-four years have passed since Duscur. The longer he dwells upon the parallels between Glenn’s death and the slaughter that birthed the Aegis Shield, the sicker he becomes. 

The enormity seems to hit Felix as suddenly as a stack of bricks. His next exhale comes out in a prolonged sigh, and his posture slumps before he lifts his gaze to Rodrigue's statue. His eyes are misty with tears. They don't fall, but Dimitri still pretends not to notice. 

"I'm supposed to commission one for Glenn," Felix says thickly, inclining his head at Rodrigue's statue, "but I don't know how." 

"What do you need?" Dimitri asks at once. He senses the plea in Felix's statement, but he pulls back before offering anything else. Felix never asks for favors, and Dimitri suspects that this one can't be returned.

Felix blinks his tears back before asking, "Do you remember what Glenn looks like?" 

Dimitri visibly recoils from shock, not even attempting to rein in his disbelief. "You can't remember him?" 

"I am _not_ repeating the question." 

"I find that very hard to believe," Dimitri states flatly, shaking his head. "He was your brother, you grew up with —" 

Felix cuts him off. "My dead family gets hung around your neck after they die, but they leave me to pick up the pieces. Isn't that how this works?" His voice trembles as his volume rises, and his hand automatically goes to the sword hilt no longer at his side. "It's been twenty-four years. _Twenty-four._ All I have is this damn shield and these empty tombs. Their remains aren't even inside. Why does it surprise you that I can't remember a single fucking thing?" 

Dimitri hesitates before answering, but only for a breath. It's not easy to swallow his guilt as his gaze passes over Rodrigue's statue, the empty plinth, and the unsealed tomb. 

"I apologize, Felix. In truth, I...I don't see Glenn when I hear him," he confesses. He's never admitted this aloud to anyone before, not even Byleth. "I only...." 

"Then what do you see?" Felix demands sharply. 

A nightmare. He sees the spectral outline of Glenn’s blackened skull superimpose itself over Rodrigiue’s marble face. If he closes his eye, he would see the apparition that has always haunted his childhood memories: the head with eyes blown wide with terror and burned flesh that sloughs off bone, bone as yellowed and vile as the shield lying at Rodrigue's feet. Dimitri shivers when its face splits into a wide grin before it melts into shadow.

_They say that the dead never truly die until they’re forgotten. You’ll never forget me, won’t you, Dimitri? Won't you?_

Dimitri blinks, and Glenn's skull is gone, only a trick of the candlelight that seemed to breathe life into Rodrigue's stone expression. Silence stretches between them for a long pause. It must have been the answer that Felix was looking for, because he scoffs to himself, shaking his head.

_Tell Felix I'll never let him forget me. Not until the day they seal him into the tomb next to mine. Tell him, tell him, tell him…_

"He doesn't talk to me," Felix says suddenly. His volume is a touch louder than he must have intended because he whirls around, careful to ensure that Bea is out of earshot. Embarrassed, he gives a mirthless laugh, but it's held back, as though the confession edges closer to a truth he doesn't want to admit aloud. "He never has. It's only you. After all this time, I can't tell if that's worse." 

"Felix," Dimitri says quietly, "the point I wanted to make is that neither of us are capable of remembering Glenn for who he was when he was alive." 

This only serves to aggravate Felix further. "Well, if we can't remember Glenn, then who can?" 

The answer comes to Dimitri in a rather abrupt moment of clarity. "Ingrid," he answers. He wonders why it didn't occur to him sooner. "She loved him as he deserved to be loved, remembered him when the rest of us couldn't, and she has moved past her grief to love someone else, just like he would have wanted. Glenn was many things when he was alive, and she is the only person left who can attest that he wasn't cruel." 

"She's already moved on," Felix says gruffly. "I don't want to dredge up any bad memories for her." 

Dimitri turns to face Felix with both brows raised. “I see. And you thought it would be kinder to ask me?" 

There's no real malice to Dimitri's question, but Felix still ignores him. "I'll talk to Ingrid," he says resignedly. He begins blowing out the candles surrounding the tombs. "And if she can't remember, I'll tell the stonemason to make Glenn bald or give him horns." 

Dimitri snorts. “He’d probably find that very amusing if he lived to see it.” 

“Of course he would," Felix says, rolling his eyes. "We used to come down here with Sylvain to vandalize the statues with charcoal.” 

“Don’t let the children hear that,” Dimitri says quickly. But he and Felix share a small laugh at the memory and the tension finally breaks. This would be the first laugh they’ve shared on Glenn’s behalf since he died. 

Ghosts do haunt the hallowed halls of the Fraldarius crypt, Dimitri decides as he and Felix gather the children before returning to the keep. But they don't live in the statues. Glenn's ghost is a spectre who clings to his past regrets, and his regrets will follow them both to the grave until the day they die.

"Did you see any ghosts?" Alexei asks Dimitri later that evening as he’s tucked into bed. “You and Uncle Felix were talking to that statue for a long time.” 

"Yes," Dimitri replies, pressing a kiss to Alexei’s forehead before blowing out the lights. "But he won’t haunt you. I promise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I can explain myself LOL. For a while, I was determined to make this chapter a long oneshot, but as I kept approaching 10k, I was cutting myself off for brevity, and I was blocked for the longest time. Hence the last minute decision to split it into two chapters and that one isn't short, either. Hopefully, that one won't take as long to finish.

**Author's Note:**

> In the wise words of [Arihime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arihime/pseuds/arihime): “Life took one look at Dimitri and said, ‘fuck this kid in particular.’”
> 
> thanks to ari, [ellisama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellisama/pseuds/Ellisama), and haley for all the enabling, lore-checking, and inspiration!


End file.
